


Playing for keeps

by bloodandcream



Series: The more the merrier [71]
Category: Supernatural
Genre: Blow Jobs, M/M, Multi, Voyeurism, coda 5.07
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-10-02
Updated: 2016-10-02
Packaged: 2018-08-19 01:38:05
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,823
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8184115
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/bloodandcream/pseuds/bloodandcream
Summary: It’s chilly and dark in the basement of the bar they play in. Sam schools himself to neutrality, or he tries to, and luck is enough on his side that he starts pulling ahead. Patrick likes to hear himself talk. There’s charm and wit to his voice, it’s disarming. Lia watches quietly but Sam starts to see something in her body language, in where she places her hands and who she focuses on. Honestly, he’s not sure if he understands the meaning of things but Sam takes it and he goes with his gut feeling and he wins.





	

“Getting a little low on chips there.”

Sam scowls across the table at the self-satisfied smirk that Patrick’s wearing. He doesn’t have to count his pile again to know that he’s got six chips left. Six. He knew that it was a risk coming here; Bobby and Dean both failed before him, but there wasn’t exactly any other options left.

“Deal the next hand.”

Patrick shrugs and leans back as he shuffles the simple deck, backed with white and green diamonds. He rolls his toothpick from one side of his mouth to the other, and it’s the best tell that Sam has to go on, but he’s not sure what it means.

“I might have a deal for you, not necessarily a way out of the game though…”

Patrick’s partner, Lia, watches dispassionately from where she sits at the side of the table. She doesn’t talk much, and when she’s not playing part of conning someone with Patrick she’s not very expressive.

“What sort of deal?”

Patrick’s not just a witch who plays because he needs to, exchanging years and moving on. He’s a conman. He enjoys it. There’s more to the game than chips and years, but Sam still doesn’t quite understand what he wants.

“I’ll be happy to trade you some of your chips back – it won’t be new years, you understand, that’s been set already. But I can hand some back, I’m having too much fun with this game for it to be over yet.”

“And what do you want in exchange?”

Sam’s not having fun with the game. He’s worried about how fast Dean’s aged, and he doesn’t like being alone in a dark bar basement with two very old, very powerful witches.

Patrick worries the toothpick between his lips, runs his fingers down a stack of chips and curls his mouth to one side before plucking three chips and setting them in the middle of the table.

“Three chips, for a piece of clothes.”

Sam is trying so hard to be expressionless like Lia, but he doesn’t quite stop his mouth from falling open for a second.

“I – what?”

“You can take off as much as you like. Three a piece.”

Lia’s watching him sharply, and Patrick leans slightly over the edge of the table. Sam’s already nervous and this definitely isn’t helping. It’s an inconsequential price though, isn’t it, all things considered. Three pieces of clothes at three each would put him up to fifteen chips, he could make a comeback.

Pressing his lips tight together, Sam glares between the two of them and shrugs out of his jacket. A sudden blow of force hits him and his chair skids back.

“Well you can at least let us get a good look.”

Rolling his eyes, Sam stands and drapes his coat over the back of his chair. Unbuttons his plaid overshirt and drops that. Reaches up to grab the neck of his undershirt and pulls that off too. Three pieces, nine chips. Good enough.

Sam’s size and his strength is something he goes to lengths to hide, to look smaller and less offensive and less noticeable. It’s nothing here, though, not up against what the two witches could do to him. If they wanted to. He doesn’t like admitting it, but for their cons and pranks, they at least stick to their word and give people a chance. Some come out on top, like Ash and Cliff. Most probably don’t get a second chance.

“Oh that’s much better.”

Patrick smiles at him widely and pushes chips across the table as Sam sits back down. He knows what this, a power play, trying to discomfort him to affect his game. Leave him feeling vulnerable.

“Deal.”

He tells Patrick, and the game resumes.

-

It’s chilly and dark in the basement of the bar they play in. Sam schools himself to neutrality, or he tries to, and luck is enough on his side that he starts pulling ahead. Patrick likes to hear himself talk. There’s charm and wit to his voice, it’s disarming. Lia watches quietly but Sam starts to see something in her body language, in where she places her hands and who she focuses on. Honestly, he’s not sure if he understands the meaning of things but Sam takes it and he goes with his gut feeling and he wins.

It seems that Patrick is as taken aback as he is. At least the witch has a good humor for loosing. An admiration, if anything.

“Well then. Let’s get your brother sorted.”

The chips go up in flames and it’s all showmanship, Sam knows that by now, but he feels the pressure loosen in his chest and he’s left light headed with the implication that he just did what Dean couldn’t, what Bobby couldn’t. He won. He beat the witch.

He’s still shirtless.

Standing and pulling his undershirt off where it’s draped over the back of the chair, Sam is ready to leave and forget all of this but Patrick leans back and smiles at him.

“Is that all you want then?”

Shirt in one hand, Sam frowns at him. “What, for my brother to be safe? Yeah.”

Lia watches, distracting, shifts her legs as she smiles at Sam. There’s a familiar burn of residual energy under his skin, like after every hunt, although it’s not so much physical this time, not like digging a grave or the strain of beheading vamps. But it’s been high stakes nonetheless. And he’s left feeling hot like there’s more to burn and really is that all there is.

Patrick pulls the toothpick out of his mouth and sets it on the green felt of the table. He says simply, “Sit down, Sam.”

And for some reason, Sam does. Shirt still in his hand, draped over his lap, skin bare.

“You know,” Patrick continues, “Sometimes I let people win. I’m not cruel. But it’s very rare for someone to best me with their own skill.”

Sam balks. “A lot of people underestimate me.”

Lia and Patrick share a look.

“I don’t doubt that.”

Patrick neatly places the cards and remaining chips away in the wood box he has, pushing it aside and Lia takes it to place elsewhere. Sam looks between them, uncertain. He should call Dean. Make sure his brother is alright. That this is all over. But it’s not, really, is it. There are still two witches in this town, and that’s two witches too many. Sam’s not sure if he needs to kill them, though. If they really deserve it.

“So,” he tells them. “I won. That’s the end, right, we all go back to doing what we do.”

Patrick nods and stands and circles around the table. “Oh, aye, if you want to. It doesn’t have to be.”

And there’s a part of Sam that is lonely and so used to feeling inferior, even if he knows that the witches are more powerful than him, this is a game and Patrick seems receptive.

“Then, what? Do you do this with all your clients? Your victims?”

Patrick laughs. “Hardly victims. But, the answer is no.”

There’s a peculiar charge in the air, two sets of eyes fixed on Sam and he realizes again he’s half naked and it was worth it wasn’t it but he could call it off now. Say no. Say stop. Go back to Dean and that’d be it. Is that what he wants.

“So, what is it about me?”

He demands. Because there are so many things about him that are wrong, that should send people in the opposite direction. And Patrick comes closer. Leans against the table right in front of the spread of Sam’s thighs.

“Quite a lot, actually. It’s been ages since I’ve seen someone like you. Or near enough.”

Sam’s not sure what he’s getting himself into but that’s nothing new. “So what do you want? Why not just take it? You could, couldn’t you?”

“Maybe.” Patrick tells him. Shares a look with Lia.

There’s a nudge of power that pushes Sam’s chair back a few inches, presses his body against it and it’s like being held down, powerless, with nothing he can do against it. If he speaks up, sure, maybe. If he wanted to.

“She likes to watch?”

He settles on, because it’s familiar porn dialogue that he’s learned from his brother and that should be fucked up enough, but Sam gets it. Nine hundred years. He’s not sure how old Lia is, but any couple needs to keep things fresh.

“I do.”

Lia tells him, shrugging out of her jacket, watching.

Patrick sinks to his knees and pushes Sam’s thighs wide with his hands, warm through denim. There’s still a power that presses against him, holding his body stiff and tight. He could fight it. Instead, Sam sinks into it like a comforting embrace, like being held. Arms lolling down over the sides of the chair, he lets his head tip back as Patrick undoes the buttons of his jeans.

Lia undoes her jeans at the same time, pressing a hand down to touch herself, lips glossy bright and eyes voracious. Patrick looks between them, communicates with her quietly before pulling Sam’s cock out and sinking down. He’s arrogant and a witch and he threatened Dean as well giving Sam an STD but god his mouth is hot and sure as he sinks down on Sam. Dark hair falling around a pale face, hands braced on Sam’s hips, Patrick sucks him down and Sam can barely so much as twitch.

-

Unsure if the lassitude in his limbs in sex-lazy haze or the witches holding him still, Sam pants and stays in his chair as Patrick leans back against the table and Lia takes him in her mouth. Her hair is glossy and pretty and porn worthy as Patrick pulls it aside to show Sam how her mouth stretches around him.

Still shirtless, jeans tugged to his ankles, Sam feels heavy and unsure as he watches. He’s won back Dean’s years and technically they’ve broken even, but aren’t they supposed to kill the witches. Isn’t that the point of the whole hunt.

Patrick and Lia will continue their travels, finding desperate suckers to con, bargaining for years. They’re witches. Shouldn’t they deserve what’s coming at the edge of a blade.

Only, Patrick pulls Lia up and kisses her mouth, curls his arms around her and there’s a smile in the corner of her lips before she presses them to his and Sam’s not really sure. About where the line is drawn. Or why. Or how.

They were human once. Are they still? Maybe it’s the blurred post-orgasm agreeableness but he can’t bring himself to incite any harm when the two witches are busy touching and looking at him and kissing.

It’s not like every hunt is a win. It’s not like every monster deserves to die. Sam knows better.


End file.
